


Sherlock and the Cat

by Meggo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cats, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:44:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggo/pseuds/Meggo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amazing how something so small can be so big.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock and the Cat

**Author's Note:**

> This is just... ridiculously fluffy. But could I stop myself? No, I could not.
> 
> Particular thanks to my trusty friend and beta, Esther, who (quite correctly) identified "love songs to at least three different cats" throughout the text.

When John comes home from the clinic on a damp Tuesday night in October, the window overlooking the fire escape is wide open. "Christ, it's bloody freezing," he says to the room in general, as Sherlock himself is nowhere to be seen. He's here, though; his coat's on the hook and something's simmering on the hob. John walks over to the window, fully intending to shut it, and comes to an abrupt halt when he realizes that Sherlock is perched on the fire escape.

"What're you doing out there?" John asks, a bit stupidly.

There's a cat sitting next to Sherlock, both of them looking out onto the alley below. As one, they turn to look over their shoulders at John, two sets of eyes blinking languidly. "Watching," Sherlock replies. The cat washes its paw.

There's no room for John on the fire escape, so he settles for leaning his arms on the sash and peering out into the gloom. "Watching what?" he asks after a minute of fruitless observation.

"Birds." Sherlock's tone implies that this should have been obvious. Which it is, John supposes, for the cat. Less so for Sherlock. And indeed, John now sees the half-dozen pigeons perched on the wires above the alley.

Sherlock and his companion resume their observation, and John takes the opportunity to look over the cat. She's a bit thin, but sleek all the same; probably a brilliant hunter. Her fur is matte black, eyes a gleaming gold. "Who's your friend?" he asks, finally.

Sherlock makes a small hmm-ing noise that John can't quite interpret. Maybe he's objecting to the 'friend' bit. "Stray," Sherlock says. "Mrs. Hudson's been leaving milk out for a week. I told her to stop."

John quirks an eyebrow. "Why, so she'll stop coming round?"

"No. Because milk isn't good for cats."

John's other eyebrow shoots up. "Sherlock," he says slowly, "Did we just get a cat?"

"Too soon to say," Sherlock replies. "She hasn't made up her mind, yet."

The next morning, there's a dead pigeon laid on the window sill; they'd left it cracked a bit, during the night.

"Ah," says Sherlock, gently gathering up the corpse and taking it to the kitchen table. He's got that look in his eyes that portends a necropsy.

John rather impresses himself by not reminding Sherlock not to get feathers all over the flat. Instead he looks at the cat, who is now perched atop the mantel, looking pleased and emitting a low and rumbling purr.

"Put out a dish of water, will you?" Sherlock says absently, already absorbed in his work. "And there's some chicken, I think."

Hiding a smile, John fixes a plate for the cat, who consumes all of it with relish.

"What'll we call her, then?" he asks, as the cat washes up after her meal.

At that, Sherlock finally looks up, gloved hands cradling one of the pigeon's wings. He stares hard at the cat, who stops washing and stares back. "Haven't the foggiest," Sherlock says, and goes back to his dissection. The cat jumps down from the mantel and pads over to the kitchen on silent, velvety paws. She jumps up onto the kitchen table and watches Sherlock work.

John watches the tableau for a moment. "Maggie," he suggests, for no particular reason.

Sherlock makes that noise again. "Margaret."

A small huffing laugh escapes John. "Done."

~~

Margaret isn't content to be an entirely indoor cat - at least, not at first. It becomes a habit for them to leave the fire escape window cracked a bit, and she comes and goes as she pleases. But then winter begins to set in, and Margaret wisely abandons the elements in favor of the warm flat. Though she's still a bit wary, and doesn't like to be crept up on, she slowly begins adapting to her new-found security with all the fervent appreciation of someone who's spent much of her life lurking in alleys.

The flat's various heat sources are particular favorites. John likes a nice fire, so on quiet evenings he'll build one in the hearth. Margaret watches the proceedings avidly, and stretches out full length before the fire. She rolls over at regular intervals, putting John strongly in mind of a roast turning on a spit.

On chilly mornings she is most often to be found in the loo. A small radiator sits against one wall (it is an excellent place to drape towels so they're toasty when one steps out of the shower), and it warms the tile floor. Margaret splays herself out on the floor with her head tucked under the radiator; when she emerges, she's pliable and woozy, drunk on heat and utterly relaxed. The first time she does it, Sherlock spends twenty minutes testing her reflexes. "Fascinating," he murmurs, when a gentle prod to Margaret's belly elicits nothing more than barely-opened eyes. "Her nictitating membranes are still visible across half the pupil. She's displaying symptoms not unlike the results of opioid ingestion."

John can't help himself. "Would you say she's... catatonic?"

"Only in the colloquial sense," Sherlock replies, without a trace of irony. "The strictest definition is related to schizophrenia, and this is manifestly not the case. If the --"

He breaks off abruptly; Margaret has extended a single claw, and hooked it lightly in the arm of Sherlock's suit jacket.

Everyone holds their breath for a moment.

"I think," John says mildly, "she's telling you to bugger off."

With a huff of indignation, Sherlock slips his index finger under her paw and carefully extricates the claw. "This jacket is Udeshi," he says firmly to Margaret, who blinks back with studied disinterest. Clearly, bespoke tailoring isn't high on her list of priorities.

~~

Margaret is sitting on John's chest when he opens his eyes. Her purr immediately kicks on, and she kneads her paws into his skin. He can feel the very tips of her claws through his shirt. "Leave off," he says, his voice rough with sleep. But he picks her up, tucking her under his arm as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and hauls himself upright.

They have a routine. Margaret waits patiently in the hallway whilst John's in the loo, and then together they go downstairs for breakfast. John has tea and toast, whilst Margaret has a bit of whatever meat they've got in the fridge. John has long since given up trying to keep her off the kitchen table; instead he scratches her behind the ears as he reads the paper. Occasionally the rustling is too much for her to resist, and she bats at the pages. It is lovely and quiet, the silence broken only by the clink of flatware on china and Margaret's rumbly purr.

This period of peace lasts for an indeterminate amount of time, because its ending depends entirely on when Sherlock rises. (John thinks 'rises' is the most accurate word for it. It's nicely vampiric.) Today, the sounds of Sherlock's impending presence begin thirty-two minutes after John puts on the kettle. Margaret gives a little chirrup and jumps off the table, weaving her way among the furniture and disappearing into the hall. Moments later she returns, leading Sherlock into the kitchen and chatting all the way.

The world's only consulting detective is not at his best in the mornings. He is, in fact, only sort-of human. His hair sticks out in all directions, some of it plastered to his cheek (Sherlock drools). He looks to have slept in his dressing gown; the belt is only threaded through one loop, leaving a long length to trail after him. Margaret quickly pounces on it and then jumps back up to the table, belt in her mouth and eyes slitted with satisfaction. John smirks and hands Sherlock a mug.

Sherlock sits, huddled over his cup, and stares back at Margaret with equally narrow eyes. After a few moments she drops the belt and saunters over; he lowers his head slightly and the cat rubs it, her silky fur ruffling up against his curls. Then Margaret flops onto her side and shows Sherlock her belly, paws dangling limply in the air. With an air of dignity that few could maintain when faced with a fuzzy cat belly, Sherlock skritches her as he sips his tea.

John doesn't bother hiding his grin now. He and Margaret are chums, but she absolutely worships Sherlock. He is, John supposes, the alpha cat in their household.

~~

The only person - well, individual - who's expressed any kind of surprise over the change in John and Sherlock's relationship is Margaret. Mrs. Hudson had always thought they were together, anyway. Mycroft hasn't explicitly said anything, but John can just tell he knows. Lestrade, who found out after failing to knock before entering the flat, seems relieved. "Maybe he'll actually get some sleep now," he says later to John, with a kind of terrifying sincerity. Molly, after seeing the rather impressive hickey John left at the join of Sherlock's shoulder and throat, was understandably downcast for a few days; she has since rallied admirably, and doesn't knock things over in the lab quite so often.

But Margaret is not so blase. The first night John sleeps in Sherlock's room, instead of his own, they're awakened at five-thirty to frantic mewings at the door. John groggily lurches over to open it, and when Margaret sees him there she skitters back and stares, wide-eyed. "Mow?" she says, sounding baffled.

"You're fine," he says, leaning down to offer her his hand. "What's the matter?"

"You weren't in your bed," Sherlock puts in, voice muffled by the pillow. "She goes in to wake you up every morning, and you weren't there. Got worried."

Margaret tentatively sniffs John's hand, and having satisfied herself that he is not an imposter, licks his fingertips and purrs. "Sorry, love," John murmurs, smoothing his hand down her spine. "'S a bit early yet. You want to kip in here for a while?"

With a trill of acquiescence, Margaret leaps onto the bed, pauses, and looks expectantly back at John. "Right," he says, and crawls back under the covers. Sherlock's arm goes back around his waist. John lets out a little sigh and closes his eyes. A moment later he can feel a warm weight curled around his head; his skull rumbles faintly from the purring. He blindly reaches up, discerning after a moment that she's draped herself over Sherlock's, as well.

He's had weirder mornings-after, John decides, and relaxes back into sleep.

~~

After Sherlock's accident (though John thinks that getting run down by a hit man in a Range Rover isn't technically an 'accident'), Lestrade is a more regular visitor at 221B. He and Sherlock snipe at each other about cases, though there isn't any heat in it. Sherlock is prone to dropping off in the middle of their conversations, his brow creased a little, even in sleep. That's the point when Margaret usually creeps along the top of the sofa, sniffing delicately at Sherlock before arranging herself atop his hip, or in the bend of his knees, or alongside the hollow of his stomach. Lestrade jokingly refers to Margaret as "the nurse cat," and John can't help but agree. It's plain that Margaret's worried for Sherlock, can tell something is quite obviously not right with her alpha.

"We had a dog like that, when I was a kid," Lestrade says, reaching over to rub behind Margaret's ear. "If you were home with the flu, or even just down with a headache, he'd kip right next to you on the bed. My mum would have to feed him in the bedroom, otherwise he wouldn't leave to go eat. Didn't think cats did the same. You always hear about how loyal dogs are, but never cats."

John quirks a smile. "Cats are a lot more like people, I think," he muses. "Some are loyal. Some aren't. This one is, for whatever reason. Especially where Sherlock's concerned."

A huff of a laugh. "Sherlock does seem to have that effect," says Lestrade dryly, eyeing John. "And I'm not discounting myself in that statement."

On the sofa, Sherlock twitches in his sleep. Margaret opens first one eye, then the other, and shifts herself along his arm until she's tucked between his head and shoulder. Then she buries her nose in her tail, the very tip of which grazes Sherlock's jaw.

~~

Horrible, screeching yowls rip through John's dreams and wrench him awake. Sherlock is already up, John's gun in his hand, and halfway through the bedroom door. John's on his feet before he can really think about what he's doing, and it's only as he follows Sherlock into the sitting room that he registers human cries of pain mixed with Margaret's furious hissing. Then there's a crash and her cries stop abruptly.

Half a second later, Sherlock has clocked the intruder over the head with the butt of John's gun, John catching the body under the arms before it can crumple to the ground. It's no one he recognizes, although it's quite dark in the flat, and he's running on auto-pilot and adrenaline, so who really knows. The man's unconscious, which is the important thing. Sherlock's on his phone (Lestrade, most likely) and pressing a roll of electrical tape into John's hand, which John uses to bind the man's wrists and ankles.

"Lestrade's on his way," Sherlock reports as he hangs up. He fumbles for the light switch and then drops to his knees on the hearth rug, crouched low over-

"Shit," John says, the puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. "Shit. Is she all right?"

"I don't bloody know, you're the doctor, you tell me." Sherlock's voice is thick with something close to panic.

But not a vet, John thinks, but does not say. He crawls over beside Sherlock and runs his hands over Margaret's body.

Sherlock springs to his feet, darting back to examine the intruder. "She bit him through his shirt sleeve. He must have thrown her off, and she hit-" He pauses, raising a hand to the mantle but not touching it. "Here."

There's blood on Margaret's jowls. She's not unconscious, but seems dazed; there's an uncertain sort of growling emanating from her throat. When John touches one of her back legs, she jerks. "Ah," he murmurs. "Broken, I think. We should-"

But Sherlock's ahead of him. John hears the beep-beep-boop of a number being automatically dialed, followed by ringing. A groggy voice comes on the line. "'Lo," a man says, clearly still mostly asleep.

"Doctor Davison, wake up," says Sherlock sharply. "This is Sherlock Holmes. I require your assistance."

There's a rustling, probably of sheets, and when Davison speaks next he sounds much more alert. "Sherlock Holmes - what? Where?"

"My flat. 221B Baker Street. There is a severely injured cat in need of medical assistance. Broken leg--"

"Possible internal injuries," John puts in.

Davison lets out a breath. "Right," he says. "Right. S'pose it's the least I can do, after you--"

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. "Yes, yes, just come, please."

"Right. Ten minutes."

John can hear sirens outside, and then boots on the stairs. Within seconds their flat is swarming with people, first uniformed officers, followed by Lestrade and some EMTs. Then a disheveled-looking man in striped pajama bottoms and a trench coat peers in, doctor's kit in hand, and Sherlock beckons him over.

Davison nods a distracted greeting to John and immediately sets to work on Margaret. She's still conscious, but clearly anxious, despite the vet's calm demeanor and capable handling of her. Within minutes he's given her a sedative and splinted the leg, but clearly more is required. Davison lets out a frustrated breath. "I need to get her into my surgery. This noise isn't good for her, and I can hardly hear myself think, let alone try to listen for internal injuries. Have you got a towel?"

Sherlock is in and out of the kitchen so fast that John doesn't even have time to consider standing up. He hands a large tea towel to Davison, who carefully tucks it around Margaret. When he brushes her leg, she lets out a low growl. "I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, tucking her close to his chest. That makes John feel a bit better, somehow.

It's Sherlock who goes with them to the surgery, while John stays behind to give Lestrade a statement and see the intruder bundled off to the Yard. He watches them go down the stairs, the tip of Margaret's tail flicking just around the edge of Davison's arm, and worries.

~~

A pitiful moan emanates from the crate in the living room.

"You are being ridiculous," Sherlock says sternly, without taking his eyes from the microscope.

John snorts, and turns on the tap to wash up the breakfast dishes. "That's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, mate."

Affronted, Sherlock finally straightens and glares at John. "How am I being ridiculous? My actions are completely within acceptable norms."

"Oh, you're all right now," John says, the corner of his mouth curling into a grin. "But when you were laid up, you were about a thousand times whinge-ier than that. Neither of you is terribly keen on being cooped up."

Sherlock huffs, and addresses the crate once more. "You can't move around for a few more days, yet, because you'll aggravate your injuries. Otherwise you'd have to be in that cast even longer, and thus go back to the crate."

John can't help it. He giggles. "She's a smart cat, Sherlock, but I think your use of advanced logic is a bit optimistic."

There's another mournful mewing from the crate.

At that, Sherlock throws up his hands and stalks into the living room, bending down to unlatch the door on the crate. He reaches inside, muttering all the while. "I told you I needed to work for a bit. You couldn't have waited another half-hour? Honestly."

But his hands are gentle, impossibly so, as he lifts Margaret out of the crate and cradles her in his arms, mindful of her cast. Her purr immediately kicks on as she strains her neck up to lick at his chin. "Manipulative," he informs her, but he's smiling.

Sherlock nudges one of the kitchen chairs over to the fire escape window and sits down, arranging Margaret in his arms so that she can see the pigeons outside. "John," Sherlock says, "Come sit. And bring your laptop. You can look at my website to see if anyone has sent us a case."

John rolls his eyes, but grabs the computer. "Aye aye, sir," he says, dropping a kiss on both of their heads before sitting down and booting up the laptop. He starts reading out the day's emails, interrupted regularly by a question or observation from Sherlock.

Margaret watches the birds, and purrs.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Sherlock and the Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453395) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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